by Julie Chase
“Hey!” A burly man with angry eyes and a handlebar mustache filled the doorway. “What are you doing in there? You don’t belong here.” Colorful tattoos of fire and scantily dressed ladies climbed his forearms and disappeared beneath his rolled-up sleeves. According to his name tag, this was Frank.
“I’m looking for something,” I explained. “My friend lost her baby’s bonnet.”
A few workers gave me strange looks, but stayed out of my mess.
“Found it!” Scarlet trilled from somewhere beyond the mountain-sized man before me. “Found it. Here it is.”
Frank advanced on me and snapped a hand out in my direction. He was quick for his size, but I was faster.
“No!” I jumped back. “No touching.”
His bushy eyebrows lowered to a tight V over his broad nose. “I’m calling the cops.” He spun in place and nearly fell over. “Whoa!”
With Poppet strapped to her chest, Scarlet blocked the doorway, business face in place. “No cops.”
Frank looked from her to me and back again. His expression simmered somewhere between mistrust and anger.
I dashed to his side. “Please don’t call the police. I didn’t touch anything, and I didn’t take anything.” I lifted my palms to prove my innocence. “Promise.”
He curled back one side of his mouth, so I slid into the doorway, shoulder to shoulder with Scarlet.
“Move.” Frank demanded.
“No problem,” Scarlet said. “We’re leaving now, but you don’t need to make any phone calls about us. We haven’t done anything wrong. How does fifty bucks sound as incentive?”
He sucked his teeth and thought it over. “Sounds like you have something to hide. One hundred and I don’t call the police, but you have to leave now, and you can’t come back. I’m not losing my job over whatever you two are up to.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking oddly dangerous for a baby-toting woman with freckles. “Fine. One hundred and you don’t mention you saw us. To anyone.”
“Why?” He flicked his gaze to me. “What’d you do in there?”
“Nothing.” I glanced at Scarlet for help.
She lifted her brows.
I flipped through a mental list of potential lies and went with the only one that didn’t involve me slipping into a British accent. “I own a pet-friendly reception hall in Shreveport. This place is our biggest competition, and I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.”
He groaned. “You business owners are the worst. Fine. Give me the money.” He presented an open palm to Scarlet.
She made an apologetic face at me. “I don’t have my purse.”
“What?” I gasped.
“I forgot it. I keep my driver’s license and a black AmEx in my back pocket, but you should try wearing a baby in a sling and toting a decent handbag. It’s impossible.”
Poppet fussed at the sound of her mother’s strained voice.
“Fine.” I shooed her with one hand. “I’ll take care of it and meet you at the car.”
Scarlet nodded, turned on her toes, and bounced Poppet gently away.
I dug into my wallet and tossed out old receipts and sticky notes in search of money. “Here we go. There’s twenty.” I slicked the wadded bill against his palm, flattening the wrinkles. It sprung immediately out of shape upon my release. “Forty. Forty-five.” The bills were getting fewer and harder to find. I fanned the pages of my checkbook in search of more. “I don’t usually carry cash,” I apologized for my lack of available bribe money. “Here. This makes sixty-five. Sixty-six, seven, eight, nine . . .” I shot him a look. “I don’t suppose you take credit cards.”
He curled his meaty fingers around the cash and crossed his arms.
I kept digging. Quarters rolled onto the floor. “Oops.” I handed Frank a few more ones and squatted over my still-falling coins. I gathered and stacked quarters into fours. “One. Two . . . fifty. How much do you have now?”
“Get up, lady.” Frank shoved my cash into his pocket. “Keep your change. Go back to Shreveport, and maybe get a better paying job once you’re there.”
“Will do.” I cleaned up my mess and hustled toward the door. A crowd of workers in white overalls gawked from the sidelines, having witnessed the entire debacle. “All righty. Thank you. Bye.”
Scarlet was in the driver’s seat, car running, windows up, and singing to whatever was on the stereo.
I climbed inside and pretended to pass out. “What is wrong with us? We’re like Lucy and Ethel, except we’re never lucky enough to wind up in a chocolate factory.”
She turned the volume down on a Kidz Bop version of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” “I love those ladies. I’m Lucy.”
I laughed. “Yeah right.”
“I have the red hair.” She reversed her car away from the reception hall and pointed us toward home. “Besides, Ethel was the sidekick.”
“I’m not a sidekick,” I insisted. “Poppet can be Ethel.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m thinking.”
She turned onto her street with a giggle. “Find anything useful in the freezer?”
“Not really.” I flipped through the handful of pictures on my phone. Nothing had struck me as notable, except the scribbled-out calendar and remnants of a hot-pink dot of paper glued to the floor. Though, I had no idea if either was significant.
My stomach sank impossibly further. How could my Dad be a murder suspect? I needed a way to save him before his reputation and veterinary practice were ruined, or worse. I shook my phone in frustration and dropped it into my newly cashless purse.
The SUV stopped behind a pile of scooters in Scarlet’s driveway. “Can you stay for dinner?”
“No, thanks. I’m going home to clear my head and bake until something makes sense in my life again.”
Hopefully that would be soon rather than after my poor father was locked behind bars.
I climbed into my car and pulled away from the curb with care. Traffic had picked up on the main roads, slowing my progress and raking my nerves. Something bounced off my roof. I adjusted my mirrors and crept along with traffic.
Ping!
I put one hand over my head instinctively as the sound recurred.
Ping! Bing! Bump! Cubes of ice slid down my windshield.
I hit the wipers and checked my mirrors again.
A yellow truck on my driver’s side flank rolled dangerously close to the car in front of it, tires on the dotted line between lanes. The word Tonka was painted over the wheel well in black. The tinted passenger window powered down and an arm came out. Chunks of ice battered my window.
My heart kicked into high gear. I hit my signal and took the next right, away from traffic and the crazed ice wielders.
Horns honked behind me.
I watched the truck in my rearview, unable to follow, trapped in traffic as I barreled away, and I hoped the ice wasn’t a warning after my trip to the freezer.
Chapter Six
Furry Godmother’s advice on meal planning: Start with wine.
Chase arrived at nine. I waited on the porch when I saw his headlights flash over my front window. An anvil of stress fell from my shoulders at the sight of him.
He climbed the steps at a turtle’s pace and kissed my cheek without enthusiasm. “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hey. Bad day?”
He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s getting better.”
I hooked my arm in his and led him into my living room. I’d been counting on his charm and wit to cheer me up, but seeing him down only motivated me to provide that service for him. Maybe he’d let me help. Unlike my father.
I’d called for Dad twice since dinner, but he claimed to be with a patient both times.
“Coffee?” I locked the front door and reset my home alarm.
Chase dropped his briefcase on the floor and toed his shoes off beside it. “Wine.”
“Done.” I motioned for him to follow me into the kit
chen, though he was as comfortable at my place as I was. Like the others on my street, my shotgun home was squat, narrow, and historic. The structures were originally built to house workers at the turn of the last century and meant to be utilitarian, but New Orleans had other plans. Now the uniquely Southern properties were colorful works of art, reflecting the individuality and taste of their owners.
Chase tucked a barstool beneath him and rested his elbows on the counter. “I love coming here at night. Your place always smells like heaven.”
My new granite countertops overflowed with fresh-baked treats and evidence of my restless labor. Unhinged cabinet doors and removed drawer fronts leaned against the updated island, waiting for me to finish the fresh paint job I’d started. I opened the new wine fridge tucked neatly beside the stainless steel dishwasher. “Tell me your troubles.”
I’d first met Chase during my senior year of high school when Scarlet started dating his brother, Carter. Chase was a sophomore then, already a volleyball player and exceptionally handsome. Pride alone kept me from showing interest in an underclassman. Heaven knows my parents and best friend would have supported the connection.
He broke into a flirtatious smile. “You first,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
“You know me.” I poured another glass of wine for myself. “I’m staying busy.”
“Apparently.” He swept a palm in front of him like a game show host, indicating the rows of fresh-baked treats. “You did all this after closing up shop?”
“I even made a pit stop at the reception hall.” I sipped my wine and watched as the statement settled in.
His eyes widened. “Should we order dinner?”
“No.” I set the available island space with plates of cheese, fruits, and crackers, then caught him up on my evening shenanigans. “Overall, I’d say it was a bust. I’m out $74.50, and on my way home, a lunatic in a big Tonka truck chucked ice out his window at me. I came home to bake and clear my head.”
“Harassed by a Tonka truck?” He swirled his glass of pinot. Deep-violet liquid clung to the sides. “I can’t decide if that’s my new favorite story or if you need a personal security team to follow you around the city. Anything else?”
“Yes.” I moved to the seat beside him and popped a red grape into my mouth. Every time I’d shoved a batch of goodies into the oven, I’d used my laptop to research freezer deaths while I waited. “Very few people die in big walk-in freezers. I can’t figure out why Mr. Becker didn’t survive. If it was you or me, we’d have come out the next morning with a little hypothermia and a bad attitude, but we would’ve lived. He had to have done everything wrong to die in there between ten, when Dad left him, and the next morning when the cleaning crew arrived. He probably shouted for help all night and exercised to keep warm. Those are both bad ideas because they drain the body of oxygen.” I lifted my fingers to tick off the mistake moves I’d learned. “When he got tired, he probably sat on the floor, also a bad idea because the cold metal would’ve lowered his body temperature at a faster rate.”
“He was hit on the head,” Chase said. “The ME hasn’t released an official cause of death, but head trauma was noted in the police report. That could’ve been a factor.”
My chin dropped. A long line of questions queued in my mind. “I thought you couldn’t help us with this case.”
“Public records.” He sampled another cheese chunk. “I picked up a copy of the report while I was at the station on business for the firm.”
“What sort of head trauma? Can I see the report?”
He leaned as far back as possible on the stool without falling off and pretended to reach for his briefcase in my living room. Scarlet’s line about men beyond the reach of their remote came to mind.
“Jeez.” I fetched the case and set it on the stool beside him. “You’re exhausted. What’s going on?”
“My dad’s slowly working me to death. He says things like, ‘Justice doesn’t sleep and neither should we when we’re on a case this big.’ Which would be fine and good except that we’re always on a huge case. When I point out the fact that I’m sleep deprived and more likely to make errors in this condition, he says, ‘No rest for the best,’ or, ‘There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,’ then claps my shoulder and goes home for a nap. He’s already put in his time. He’s earned his sleep. I, on the other hand, am the wayward son returning to prove my worth.”
I ran an arm over his shoulders and tugged him against me, taking a seat at his side. “I have a parent just like that. If I can do it, you can do it. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you came home. I’d have gone full bananas by now without you.”
He feigned shock and pulled away. “Not full bananas.”
“Yep.”
“Well, we couldn’t have that.” He tugged his tie loose and unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt. “I miss professional volleyball. The clothes were more comfortable, and my coach was nicer.” He snapped his briefcase open and handed me a thin stack of papers.
I skimmed the text. “Mr. Becker might’ve died before entering the freezer.” I worked the new information around in my head. “I don’t think that helps my case. Dad could’ve whacked him on the head and dragged him in there. Anyone could have. Or maybe he was already in there when he was conked.”
Chase made a little cheese-and-cracker sandwich. “Maybe. The report’s preliminary. No new news, other than the head injury. Cause and time of death have to come from the ME. That’s a report I’d like to get my hands on. It’ll include a description of what he might’ve been hit with.”
I fumed inwardly. Why hadn’t Jack returned my texts? It’d been hours since I’d first asked him for some simple details. We were friends. Weren’t we? “I should’ve known about the head injury. Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”
Chase sat back with a sigh. “Anyone like Jack?”
I climbed off my stool, clutching the papers, and paced the floor. “Would it have killed him to text me?” I blurted. “There’s never been anything more important than this, and he can’t poke his phone screen a few times for me?”
I skimmed the document slowly, hoping something new would stand out. “Whoever put the doorstop in front of the door must not have known the lock was busted.”
“A reasonable assumption.”
“I think I can rule out any workers with knowledge about the freezer. Unless the stopper was put there to throw us off their trail.”
“You might be overthinking now.”
“Okay, but what about the emergency light? Oh, no.” I cringed. “If the knock on the head didn’t kill him, then he regained consciousness at some point and knew he was trapped. He turned on the emergency light and waited for help that never came.”
Penelope dashed under my feet, nearly scaring me senseless. She wound around Chase’s ankles and darted away before I could catch her for a snuggle. The row of newly painted cabinet doors clattered into a pile.
“I don’t know why you don’t pay someone to rehang those,” Chase said. “You’re too busy to remodel your kitchen.” He laughed. “Who does stuff like this?”
“My dad.” I restacked the doors. “He made me try everything before I was allowed to ask for help. Now I can do all kinds of things, like remove, prime, and repaint these doors. I’ll rehang them too, as soon as I have time. It’s not like I tried to hang the cabinets. I’m just refinishing them.” I knocked on the granite. “Don’t tell Dad, but I didn’t even try to install the new countertops. I made one phone call and presto. Free delivery and installation.”
“Rebel.” Chase turned curious blue eyes on me the way he did whenever the subject came up. “Speaking of massive renovation funds, how’s it going with Grandpa Smacker?”
“Things are good.”
“Uh-huh.” He sipped his wine and watched me squirm. “You sold some of your recipes to Grandpa Smacker’s Homemade Preserves for a pet-friendly companion line to their bestselling spreads.”
&nb
sp; “Correct.”
“You were paid a sizeable advance and remain on staff as a consultant until the line rolls out this summer.”
I pressed the wine glass to my lips and sucked. “That sums it up.”
“I see.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Tell me the part you’re keeping from me.”
I tried to rearrange my expression and failed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re keeping something from me,” he mused, “which is fine. Even the closest friends keep a few things to themselves, but you, Lacy Marie Crocker, are a sharer. An oversharer, really, and I can’t help wondering what this is about.” He pointed at my face.
I bit my tongue. He was right, but this secret wasn’t mine to tell. “I’m not an oversharer.”
“Wrong. You tell me everything. I know more about you than I want to, yet anytime the topic of Grandpa Smacker comes up, you go mum. Why is that?”
I rested my arms at my sides. Crossed them. Dropped them again. What did I usually do with my hands? Why were they just hanging there?
He held my gaze another long beat before changing the subject. “I don’t want you to worry about your dad. He isn’t going to be convicted. He didn’t do it, and our local detectives are sharp. Plus, if they somehow manage to charge him, he has the means to retain a top-tier defense attorney.”
I stopped pacing. “He’s my dad.”
Chase joined me in the room’s center and caught me by one wrist. “I know.” He pulled me against his chest and set his chin on top of my head. “He’s going to be okay, and so are you.” He lifted my heavy arms and placed them around his waist.
I buried my cheek in the valley of his chest and inhaled the scents I’d come to associate with safety.
